trash, stench, decay,
a stale perfumery.
Squawking presence
a reminder of life,
yet a reluctance of
participation…this
drudgedy of humanity.
Francticly squawking
’tis a call of unbelief,
thief of passivity.
Bruised, disfigured,
deformed, vagrant,
EXPIRED life it seems.
Blackened masses
rooting deliverance
choirs of transformation
and change, for no longer
EXPIRED she be…. feathered
guides, protectors in whom
she believes.
THE CROWS REVENGE.
©️PSA 20/6/21.
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